


Captain's Trailer Log

by missalexandra



Category: Star Trek: Discovery
Genre: Alternative universe (sort of), F/M, M/M, Sexual Content, extreme silliness
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-14
Updated: 2018-03-14
Packaged: 2019-03-31 08:51:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13971567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missalexandra/pseuds/missalexandra
Summary: Gabriel Lorca wasn't killed when he was replaced by his Mirror double, but rather has materialized in a very weird time and place: 21st century America, where he is being held captive by its colorful denizens.  Totally inspired by "Captain's Basement Log," it is the American analogue. My version has rougher language and later chapters will get raunchy, though never explicit.





	Captain's Trailer Log

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Captain's Basement Log](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13692654) by [lha](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lha/pseuds/lha), [vintage1983](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vintage1983/pseuds/vintage1983). 



Personal log, Captain Gabriel Lorca.  Date unknown.

I have been trapped here for at least two planetary days. When I first awakened in this place, I was wearing only my undergarments, which was a cause for some concern, but I do not appear to have been sexually assaulted. I do have some bruises and a considerable bump on my head, which I think was received in the skirmish that followed my unexpected materialization.

I remember being surrounded by a group of what I am almost certain now are humans, armed with primitive projectile weapons. My first clue was the smoke and acrid smell of gunpowder that resulted when one of them fired into the air. I took this as a warning, I was outnumbered and groggy, so I raised my hands in surrender and placed my phaser on the ground.  Two of the men (I believe I have thus far seen only males) held me while another picked up my weapon.

“What the Sam Hill is this thang?” he asked.

 “Is this Sam Hill a munitions fabricator?” I said, requesting clarification. “Is he a leader I can negotiate with?”

“Don’t be no smartass, boy,” Earl said. Then he fired at a tree, which of course did not do much on a stun setting.

“I thank it’s a toy, Earl,” one of the men opined.

Then Earl found the control settings and I really got worried. When he fired again, it resulted in sparks and smoke. This drew  much hilarity from the group, which responded with interjections such as “Looky that!” and “Holy sheet.”

Earl fired the phaser at a fence and the side of a building, amid growing excitement. _Are there no security forces that might respond to weapons fire? Or is that commonplace here?_

He then changed the settings again, and I feared the result.

“Be careful with that!” I shouted.

Earl pointed it at me, and I hit the ground, taking my captors down with me. It was a good thing, as the phaser was indeed on a high setting. The beam went over our heads and hit a metal contraption with two wheels that I later learned was a mode of transportation known as a “hog,” though it does not appear to have porcine qualities. The machine was melted into slag, which led its owner to erupt first in piteous wails and then angry interjections. He and Earl began exchanging what I interpreted as threatening language.

“Motherfucker!”

“Whatcha gonna do ‘bout it, pussy?”

“You is lower’n a snake’s belly in a tar rut!”

“I left yo mama near as melted as that fuckin’ hog!”

Fear of a fatal result tore me out of trying to ascertain the hog owner’s feline properties and wondering why Earl had burned his mother. I broke free from my captors’ hold and lunged for Earl. That is when I was apparently hit on the head and knocked unconscious.

I awakened in a one-room accommodation that appears to have been constructed from a metal tube. In addition to the bed I am lying on, it contains a table and seating built into one wall, a small kitchen and a tiny room with a primitive water-based toilet and what appears to be a water-based shower. I am chained to the bed by one leg, with a chain long enough to reach the sanitary facilities, such as they are. 

I have explored as much of the space as I can reach and have found nothing I can use to effect an escape, just empty paper plates, half eaten food and soiled clothing.  

I chose to put on the shirt with an image of a predator bird and a weapon, with the inscription “You can have my guns when you pry them out of my cold, dead hands.” It was cleaner than the one reading “White Power,” which is somewhat ironic if that is, as I guessed, an advertisement for soap.

One of the drawers contains a pile of cylindrical containers that might have held ammunition or food, except that some of them carry an old-Earth medical symbol. I must ask my CMO what “oxycodone” is if I ever see her again.

There are wrappers and bags labeled as having contained “Twinkies” and “Pork Rinds,” boxes labeled “Pizza Hut,” and many empty cans that once contained liquids identified as “Pabst Blue Ribbon” and “Busch Light.” The smell indicates some sort of alcoholic grain beverage.

The utensils are made of a plasticene substance that snapped when I tried to use it to pry open the window, which seems to be sealed shut. When I try to look out through the dirt, all I can see is trash, a few wrecked vehicles raised off the ground by large bricks and some dogs.

There is a metal box next to the bed that has a photo of baked goods on the cover but actually holds “condoms” and a small bottle containing a clear liquid that is slippery to the touch. The presence of ancient contraceptive devices was a solid indication that I might have traveled back in time, and also that the natives are likely human.  I am grateful to have opened this box before choosing to investigate one of the limp, rubbery objects under the bed.

The level of sanitation is rather appalling overall, inferior to that of the Tellarite drunk tank I once had the misfortune of spending a night in. I suppose I should be grateful for a toilet, though I am trying not to look too closely at the stains on the sheet, especially given my discovery re: condoms.

About an hour ago, two of my captors entered my cell. One was holding a weapon trained on me while the one previously identified as “Earl” handed me my uniform and unshackled me long enough to put it back on.

“Looks a lot like one’a them joggin’ suits, but I don’t think y’all is any kinda runner,” he said. “Not packin’ this shit.”

Earl threw my phaser on the bed. “Had a lotta fun with this until it shut down on me. How d’ya turn it back on?”

“You apparently ran down the power pack’s charge. It has to be replaced or recharged,” I informed him.

“And I bet you hafta do that on ya spaceship, huh?”

I was briefly excited. “Why, yes! If you would let me contact them, I could arrange that charge.” _Or just get the hell out of this nightmare you call your life._

“Fuck you, nerd! Ya think I don’t know what this thang is? Ya think I ain’t never watched no TV?”

He threw my communicator on the bed. I grabbed it. “Lorca to _Buran_.  Requesting immediate transport.” There was no response.

Earl smacked me across the face and took the communicator back, shoving it in his waistband next to his weapon. _Is everyone in this society armed?_

“That horseshit don’t play wit’ me, boy,” he said.

Then he took my badge out of another pocket and turned it over in his hand.  “Lorca, is that yer act-you-all name or is that some kinda space guy from one’a them shows?”

“Thinks he rode in on the _Enterprise_ , he does, Earl,” said the one pointing his weapon at me.

That left me speechless. I remain mystified as to how these primitives could have known the name of a Starfleet vessel.

“Still, Billy Bob, I gotta wonder if he’s some kinda fed, what with the badge and the raygun.”

“Yes, fed! The Federation will come looking for me,” I said. They looked at me quizzically and went back to their argument.

“I dunno, Earl, since when do ya see feds wearing lycra? Look how fuckin’ tight those pants are. It’s like somethin’ one’a them faggots wear at the Manhole in Mobile.”

“How the fuck you know what they wear at the Manhole? You a reg-ya-lar cust’mer? You checkin’ out the fed’s dick, Billy Bob?”

With that, I found myself crossing my legs self consciously and wanting to, er, adjust myself. _If you’re listening, Command, rethink this design. Either I have to cover myself with whale oil and put them on lying down or replicate a larger size and fight to keep them from sliding off._

“What kinda name is Lorca? You some sorta spic?” Billy Bob asked me, in what I think was an effort to change the subject.

_What the hell? Spic and span? Aspic? Spicules?_

“Dunno, I thank he could be one’a them Jews, Billy Bob.  He’s kinda got the nose.”

“You a Jew or a spic?” Billy Bob asked, prodding one of my legs with his foot.

“Are those both religious references?” I asked, remembering that Jews were a religious order.

“He’s nuttier’n squirrel shit,” Earl said. “Let’s vamoose. Diesel Brothers is on.”

I surmise that “Diesel Brothers” is some form of entertainment, as Billy Bob asked if he could watch “Smokey and the Bandit” next, then turned to me and informed me it’s his “favrit movie.”

I was pleased to discover that my captors had not removed the small recording device from my jacket, leaving me able to record this log in case I am not found before they kill me.

_Can Starfleet even track me here? Where is here? And when?_

\---------------------------------------------

Addendum.

Well, I have answered two large questions, though that only raises several more. 

When he brought me some food, I asked Billy Bob where I was and what year it is. The answers: Alabama, and 2018. I am still digesting that bombshell. This is Earth prior to World War III. And the location explains why these people speak with an accent somewhat similar to my own. It is as if the myths I remember from my boyhood of semihuman creatures wandering into town from the swamps have become flesh. I am regretting not having studied ancient Earth culture in any significant depth.

I am also digesting the first solid meal I have had since being captured, featuring a meat-based item Billy Bob identified as “possum stew.” To accompany it, I received two slices of suspiciously squishy bread stuck together with a white substance and two cans of “Busch Light.”

When he noticed me looking at the bread with distaste, Billy Bob said: “Whassa matta? Aincha never seen a may’naise san’wich?”

Upon opening a can I learned that “Busch Light” is indeed an alcoholic beverage. It tastes a little like beer, but much more watery and bland than any beer I am familiar with.

At least the stew was savory and filling. Though I suspect I don’t want to know what “possum” is.

I may be able to convince “Billy Bob” to help me, though the price might be high. I am a little concerned that Earl’s observation about his sexual preferences may be accurate.

He looks at me in a way that is, well, _desirous_. He sat across from me while I ate, drinking from a half-empty bottle of what clearly smelled like distilled spirits. He offered me a few slugs, and the taste proved to be a familiar one. I’ll be damned if it wasn’t bourbon, a flavor that filled me with nostalgia and sadness.

Then Billy Bob told me I have a “purty mouth.” When he grabbed his crotch and began making animalistic noises I considered whether I would be able to choke him with my chain. Fortunately, this was made unnecessary, as Earl summoned him to watch something called “Nascar.”

I am no homophobe, I mean everyone experiments a little, don’t they? But the thought of being forced to have sexual relations with Billy Bob makes me consider choking MYSELF with this chain.

I do have to thank him for the alcohol, however, as I am happy to surrender temporarily to the sweet embrace of intoxicated unconsciousness. _Tomorrow is another day. Didn't I once hear that said in a Southern accent?_


End file.
